


Like Poked Embers

by skb2n



Category: Disney Duck Universe
Genre: M/M, POV Donald Duck, Porn with Feelings, Unrequited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:55:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24236899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skb2n/pseuds/skb2n
Summary: If family was uncharted territory, empty maps he never possessed, then Scrooge McDuck was an undying star burning billions of lightyears out of man’s reach. Pursued, yet untouchable. Desired, yet untameable. Only those far gone would be crazy enough to chase.And so he did.
Relationships: Donald Duck/Scrooge McDuck
Comments: 24
Kudos: 72





	Like Poked Embers

**Author's Note:**

> [ This fic is dedicated to my hwife jibi (who is ASLEEP right now smh ilu bby i hope u like dis <333), and a companion piece to his art here: <https://twitter.com/luney_toons/status/1254602471525224448> Please give him a follow! ]
> 
> [ I'm new to ducks and scdn/scronald/sukudona, but this is my life blood now. I'm still learning their relationship throughout comics and multimedia, but this fic is mostly self indulgent and may get OOC haha. Like, I accidentally wrote the very Ducktales McDuck Manor in what was meant to be a comic-oriented setting, but...hey...it's oneshot smut so who cares!! Enjoy, good reader <3 ]

* * *

Donald fluttered his eyes open from an unsatisfactory slumber and groaned with the sunken mattress beneath him. Somewhere in the dark a wall clock tick, tick, ticked as he blink, blink, blinked and fought with all his might not to be lured into consciousness. Each passing stroke of time reminded him that he was not in his own bed but in one of his uncle’s, and he tried desperately to replace the mechanical whirring with something more pleasant. He mentally traveled back home where he could count sheep—one, two, five, all the way to twenty—until the fluffy critters’ bleating resembled his uncle’s insufferable croaking instead. Suddenly the room was too hot, too loud, too uncomfortable to go back to sleep. It was just his luck that any attempt for comfort only managed to make him more awake. 

At the very least, Donald felt justified in his grouchy struggle. The night’s restlessness started before his head hit the pillow, from hours prior when he had yet to drive over to his uncle’s stuffy abode. After the combined efforts of Gyro and the triplets caused a harmless experiment to go awry, his house would need repairs for the remainder of the weekend, leaving the four ducks without a place to sleep. News of his misfortunes spread fast, as his cousins each offered him their places to stay, though he had declined immediately. Gladstone was just in it to one-up him, and Fethry was...well, Fethry. Simply being on the phone with them had given him a headache, so he sought the help of his uncle Scrooge, which would normally be his last resort if he didn’t have a hunch he’d be called for work at the mansion or the Money Bin, besides. The old man was no stranger to soliciting cheap labor and allowed the boys to stay in his mansion under the pretense that they did some clerical housekeeping for him. But as the first night panned out to hellish misery, Donald was quickly regretting his decision. 

For as long as he knew his uncle, Donald also knew that it was typical for McDuck properties to feel worse inside than out. The idea of living lavishly from within Scrooge’s empire of earnings sounded dreamy on paper, but when the benefactors and billionaires went home it became a waking nightmare more than anything else. The plot of land was armed with unbiased security, inconvenient amenities, hallways that were more talkative than its catty staffers, and if your name was Donald Duck you were picked by Scrooge himself to work for mere pennies. No matter what McDuck property he stood on, it was bound to be an unpleasant time, and that was especially true of the mansion. Whether fortunately or unfortunately, Donald had grown accustomed to the unpleasantries by the time he reached drakehood, when air conditioning had yet to catch on and you’d be lucky to find a room with a box fan in it, but tonight was particularly stifling. The bedroom he stayed in, number four of twelve, felt more suitable for a pet dog than a guest with the way its walls seemed to crowd in on him and his feet practically hung off the bed. And it was so damn _hot_ , even for a summer’s eve. This was more than his uncle’s stingy mistreatment. This was torture.

When he rolled to the edge of his too-small bed and a sharp coil poked his tailfeathers, he had just about had enough. 

“Stupid mattress, stupid heat, stupid Scrooge!” 

He repeated the grumbling mantra to himself as he shot out of bed, replacing each sentence with a new annoyance. His nightshirt clung to damp feathers, unaffected by the lack of bedsheets around his body. Heat infiltrated his head and clouded it like television static as he clambered to the closest window for relief. His half-asleep hands struggled to get the ancient thing open, and after what felt like an eternity of exertion he was rewarded with a gust of stagnant warm air on his clammy plumes. He winced away frustrated tears and plopped his rear down on the area’s reading chair in defeat. As his entire body deflated onto the tiny armrest a trill noise startled him, a noise he assumed was caused by his chair sliding back, but as he paused in silence it seemed to be coming from something else nearby. He jumped to his feet for a thorough investigation and on the way discovered the major culprit for his sufferings: in the corner of the room, tucked away behind a single bookcase, was a dusty wall unit blowing warm air and hissing all the while. 

Donald saw red, and before he could blink the anger away he was marching straight to Scrooge’s quarters ready to scream the entire corridor awake. He stomped his way around winding halls, making sure his presence would be known well before he arrived at his uncle’s swiftly-approaching door. The only thing he had to be thankful for were his boys sleeping at opposite ends of the manor so they wouldn’t have to witness their uncles fighting for the millionth time. 

“Uncle Scrooge, I’m coming in,” he squawked before wrestling with impervious handles. The temptation to use his body as a battering ram was strong. “I know you’re awake, I can hear your miserable old voice.” 

He couldn’t, really, but he was confident that such an attitude would bait his uncle out of hiding. All it took were a few exceptionally unkind knocks for a certain rich duck to cease activity from within, signaled by an unenthused whine and a piercing wooden scrape against floorboards. The locks turned by his hands and he eased up his obnoxious act to allow his uncle room to open the door. 

“What do you want, Nephew?” Scrooge demanded, revealing only a quarter of his visage from the other side. He didn’t even bother with a name, a sign he must have been _very_ annoyed. Donald enjoyed the revelation as much as he detested it.

“One of your old vents is blowing hot air into my room.” He jammed his beak and elbows between mahogany in an attempt to pry open the doors.

“And?” Donald could feel his uncle already rejecting him, the forceful resistance threatening splinters in his feathers. For a duck so past his prime Scrooge was alarmingly strong.

“Do something!” 

“If you say so.”

In an instant the door flew open, releasing all tension from Donald’s muscles and sending him collapsing to the floor. He scrambled to his feet, shaking away dust and invisible stars as he prepared a scathing rant. 

“What was that for?”

“I’m doing something by getting away from you,” Scrooge explained on his way out, emphasized by a jab of his index finger. “If I can’t find peace in this room there are several dozen other _nephew-less_ ones waiting for me.”

“Nuh-uh, you’re gonna fix this.”

Donald asserted himself, planting his feet in the doorway and giving the old feathers a once-over before getting hung up on his peculiar appearance. With anxious eyes, fluffed cheek plumes, and his cane positioned directly in front of an uneven coat, Scrooge looked as disheveled as Donald felt. It was probably the heat, he realized, though that didn’t explain his mussed up attire.

“Why are you up so late, anyway? And still in your day clothes?”

Scrooge shifted in place, refusing to answer for several odd seconds. With nothing else to focus on, Donald caught sight of his uncle’s missing hat despite the outfit to match. He really did look out of sorts.

“Unlike you, my work never stops.”

His blood boiled. If he had ever said he loved his uncle before it must have been under a fever spell. 

“The boys and I are doing extra work for you on _our_ day off,” Donald practically growled before having to bring his temper back down lest his bark turn into bite. The old man’s work ethic would be admirable if not for the fact that it was almost always for dubious affairs. 

“‘In exchange for sleeping under my roof’—have you forgotten the terms? I can kick you out whenever I please.” 

He stood in defiance of his uncle who in turn stood leering at him awkwardly, like he was attempting stern resilience while clearly distracted by something. Donald grew suspicious for all of one second as a bead of sweat slithered down his spine and reminded him why he was there in the first place. 

“Alright, alright, but I can’t sleep in that room. Give me a different one.”

“Do I look like I run a bed and breakfast?” Donald opened his mouth to inform his uncle of the _numerous_ McDuck hotel chains before he was cut off. “Never mind that. What could possibly be so bad about it?”

“I told you, there’s hot air blowing into it. Heat. In August. Get it?” 

“ _Hmph_ , the only hot air around here is the one coming from your blabbering mouth. But fine, if it’ll get you out of my feathers, I’ll take a look.” 

Donald bowed in dramatic curtsy and put on his best theatrical impression. “Thank you, Your Miserable Majesty.” 

Scrooge adjusted his coat by its ends and groaned but said nothing as he shoved past the younger drake in lead. Donald raised his brows, fully expecting a scathing quip or smack in return, though it never came. He shrugged and followed his uncle in silence, taking note of the old man’s curious gait: unsteady at times, with much more reliance on his cane than usual. Maybe his uncle’s age was finally catching up to him, he thought, or maybe it was something more heinous. Perplexed by the logic jump of his own mind he scratched the back of his head and held back a small fit of laughter. The old miser wasn’t known to keep those kinds of secrets, and if anything, he’d sooner brag about them than shy from them. How silly he felt for giving his uncle that much credit. 

Although, Scrooge wasn’t exactly known to look the closest thing to embarrassed over something that was apparently keeping him up past midnight.

Suddenly Donald was itching to know what the world’s richest duck did behind closed doors, the kind not even he was allowed entrance.

“Keep up your stalling and I’ll be walking right on over to my Money Bin.”

Donald shook his aimless musings away and hopped to his uncle at the end of the hall. The atmosphere changed dramatically to suffocating heat the closer he walked, hitting him in the face like a sack of bricks. As he slowed to a stop beside his uncle the two of them stepped into his arid guest room. Scrooge was the first one to pull at his collar.

“It...is a bit warm in here.” 

“See what I mean?” Donald remarked pointedly, gesturing to the intangible haze that choked the air. Scrooge continued to tug at his unseasonal garb. 

“Whatever this ends up costing me is going to cost _you_ , Nephew. Now let's get this over with.”

Floorboards creaked as if to taunt Donald’s aggravated pace to the offending air unit. With great effort he cleared the area of the adjacent bookshelf and placed his hands on his hips. 

“Here.”

Scrooge passed weight from one foot to the other, still keen on holding his cane stiffly in front of him.

“And changing settings on the panel didn’t work?” His tone was accusatory, offended even, much to Donald’s confusion.

“Panel?”

The old man squawked like his tail feathers had just been plucked clean off. “You mean to tell me your big problem was not remembering how to flip a switch?”

Donald jammed his eyes shut and swiped a clammy palm down his face, hoping it would rid him of his abruptly forming headache. Perhaps when he opened his eyes again his rude companion would be gone, too, but that was probably asking too much. 

“Well how was I supposed to know? The dang thing looks like it belongs in a prison cell, not a guest room!”

Scrooge responded with nothing but an audible exhale and strident march to the unit. He elbowed his way opposite Donald and, with unflinching eye contact, opened its topside panel to turn a dial. A gust of cool air replaced tepid heat and bathed the younger drake in instant relief, from his crownplumes down to his webbed soles, his tired dry eyes be damned. 

“So that’s all it was,” he mumbled sleepily to himself, tempted by an oncoming adrenaline crash.

Scrooge protested through gritted teeth and hunched into foreboding posture. The flushed hues across his cheeks deepened like poked embers. 

“I can’t believe you dragged me out of _my_ busy schedule to correct _your_ incompetence!” His complaining quickly devolved into quacked rambling. “They should bring back corporal punishment just for you.”

Donald turned his attention away from the refreshing air and to the grumbling duck stomping closer with his cane arm elevated. Grown all too familiar with the sight, he ducked just in time for the device’s tail end to merely knick him in the shoulder, his reflexes quickly waking up for the next swing. He threw his hands up to ensnare the stick before any real damage could be done, locking wild eyes with even wilder blues.

“What’s the matter with you!?”

“You’ve wasted enough of my time, now let go of my cane!”

“Not when you’re using it like a weapon, you crazy old man!”

His head was pounding. He continued to wrestle the object in mid-air, cursing his uncle’s strength and all the enigmatic ways his abilities showed up at the most inconvenient times. Their bodies drew nearer, Donald noticed in the midst of struggle, and he realized he had to be careful lest he actually end up hurting him. He was exhausted, agitated, beyond done with the whole situation, but he knew he could withstand a brief lashing before simply jumping out of harm’s way. Scrooge, on the other hand, could throw out a hip for good, or end up in intensive care. Part of him felt it would be deserved after years of abuse, but the other half—the one who could see testaments of their memories etched into gray feathers—felt it inconceivable to hurt Scrooge like that. The man was still family, and as much as Donald hated him in that moment, he never wanted to be responsible for a hospital visit. The medical bills would be too high besides, he told himself as justification for going soft, and not at all because of the way his uncle’s dumb mug tugged at his heartstrings. His family was a strange thing, but it was his family, and after all this time he wasn’t sure where he’d be without it. Even with grumps like Scrooge in it. 

_Especially_ with grumps like Scrooge in it, he realized for the first time. His stomach fluttered as he mulled over his new revelation.

Had those emotions always been there?

“You let your guard down too easily.”

The sound of his uncle’s quip steered him back to reality, making him lose control of the hickory between his fingers. Before he could spout off another rant and regain his hold, he was yanked forward without being afforded so much as a blink. Not having enough time or space to fumble to safety, he braced for impact with eyes shut and arms frantically wrapping around his uncle. His mind dizzied as he lost footing completely, praying to whatever was watching over them that he’d break their fall. If his paranoia came true he’d never live it down.

He knew his back had hit the ground but he didn’t feel it. He knew time had passed but he didn’t sense it. He waited and waited for the world to stop spinning behind his eyelids just so he could take a peek and assess the situation. Scrooge was in his arms right where he expected, though somehow the old man’s cane handle had made a home around Donald’s neck. The relief that eased his panicked mind was short-lived as the discomfort of their position hit him in full. Their legs tangled in a way no limbs should, sending a shockwave of pain up his lateral form. He tried adjusting their bodies to something more comfortable but it was no use; his uncle was an immovable force. Yet even though he was in excruciating pain, he figured it was better him than a some-hundred-year-old billionaire.

“...You okay?” Donald coughed against the handle at his throat, easing his torso up a bit to better inspect Scrooge. He removed the cane from his neck and placed it aside, his other hand remaining on his uncle’s clothed back.

“Why wouldn’t I be? I’m old, not decrepit. It’ll take more than a fall to get rid of me.”

The old bird lifted his head from Donald’s chest triumphantly, completely brushing past the fact that it was entirely his fault they were on the ground to begin with. Donald rolled his eyes and pushed off the ground with his free hand to get them at eye level—mostly so he could scowl at his uncle with utmost clarity.

“So much for caring,” he mumbled. Scrooge was already attempting to slip out of Donald’s grasp when he paused to shoot a dirty look.

“What was that?” 

“Nothing, nothing. Here, let me just—”

With his preoccupied hand still maneuvering on his uncle’s back for the sturdiest hold, Donald pushed off his free hand entirely to get their chests closer for lifting. Scrooge rejected the act, wriggling in his arm like a feral kitten and forcing him to pull his legs in. His intentions were to use his lap as support to bring them both to their feet, but his plans were thwarted by an unusual sensation coming into contact with his knee. Something warm and moist, soft yet firm pressed against him that he couldn’t readily identify. He opened his bill to inquire—cut off immediately by a pleasured groan echoing in his ears. The tips of his feathers puffed out as an overwhelming need filled him, a need that reeled his gaze down to the closed space between them, and it was then that his lagging brain finally caught up. 

Scrooge was aroused. 

It was small enough to be mostly hidden behind fluff, but not nearly small enough to go unnoticed. Donald stilled in place, paralyzed by ice cold anxiety and fire hot curiosity. In his moment of respite Scrooge took the opportunity to clamber off him, cane in hand and standing in a huff with his backside on display. Whether it was out of fortune or misfortune Donald couldn’t say, but it certainly didn’t help the situation that his uncle so brazenly postured himself that way. His family tree was full of oddities, but this was a new one. A particularly troubling one.

A barrage of “Should I, shouldn’t I?”s were overpowered by “Will I, won’t I?”s in his traveling thoughts. He decided to go with “I will.”

“Um, Uncle Scrooge, is that…?” he trailed off, nodding to forbidden areas as the old drake cocked a sideways glare. 

“Shut your trap and your eyes, you degenerate.”

Another swing came his way, though with it being much less precise this time he dodged it with ease. The gears kept turning in his head.

“You mean you were…?”

“ _Leaving_ to find a place where good-for-nothing nephews can’t shove their beaks into my business!” 

“All this time you were snapping at me about work, and you were off in your room doing _that_!?”

“You’re out your tree, Nephew, I can’t—, I won’t—, _bah_!”

It was rare to witness Scrooge McDuck flustered to the point of broken speech. It was even rarer to be the cause of it. 

Donald’s head filled with an unusual high, akin to honor and pride, and he made no attempt to overthink it. A bemused grin snuck onto his feathers, one that flagrantly betrayed his moral compass. He knew he should’ve been offended at the ordeal that was ridiculous in more ways than he could count, but he wasn’t stopping it, either. When the other duck whipped around to make his exit and Donald reached out on impulse, he cemented his path for the rest of the night. 

If he was about to sink to murky waters, he at least wanted company to go down with him.

“Unk, wait,” he urged once he snatched his uncle, his own knees digging painfully into uneven hardwood. “You know, you could—, Why don’t—...” He was suddenly bewitched by the situation, his head fogged and unable to make sense of the raging fire coursing through his body.

“If you're going to hold me captive the least you could do is spit it out.” 

Something in Scrooge’s scornful, downward glare set off a chain reaction of self-indulgent thoughts that Donald could no longer deny. He sat his rear firmly back on the ground and pulled his uncle with him, physically and mentally preparing for the collision. His legs spread wide enough for the old bird’s paunch body to wedge between, albeit with the grace of a flightless duckling. He never once let go, quickly using his free arm to wrap around Scrooge’s cloaked chest to complete the fall as safely as he could. Scrooge struggled against him but he didn’t let up, not even when he was faced with a mouthful of feathers. If anything, it only enticed him. Fanned the flames in and around his body.

“Let me take care of that for you,” he propositioned, releasing his uncle’s arm and snaking his hand down velvety fabric to palm at the old man’s emerging lust. Scrooge grunted, cussed, all but throttled his way out of Donald’s grip to no avail. Almost like he wasn’t trying hard enough.

“You’ve lost more than your marbles if you think— _ah_.” 

Scrooge dropped his cane and tensed against Donald with pulled-in knees, his breath noticeably hitched upon touch. Donald leaned closer and thumbed over his uncle’s lightly soaked tip through the coat. 

“You already started, didn’t you?” he crooned, ignoring how unfamiliar his own voice sounded. “Why stop now? Think about it.”

The corners of his beak spread to the point of ache and disregarded his guilt-prone conscience. If Scrooge deserved to be knocked down a few pegs, he deserved to indulge in his most wicked desires. Just for one night. After all, who was to say it wasn’t all just a fever dream? This was probably the least strange thing to happen to the century-old adventure capitalist, all things considered.

“I don’t want to.”

Donald perked up out of his drunken stupor. “Huh?” 

“Quit your yapping and do it if you’re going to do it.”

He cautiously placed his bill atop Scrooge’s shoulder, tickled by the spot of exposed feathers there and casting his eager gaze downward. His hand curled around his uncle’s expanding girth, a perfect fit despite the clothed obstruction. He listened intently for quiet moans of affirmation and, when neither his conscience nor his uncle drove him away, pushed the curve of his beak into old plumes with an inebriated sigh. 

“Yes, Unkie.”

It didn’t take long for his uncle to fill out in his hand, even when he had yet to act upon his most incessant urges. Slowly, or perhaps slyly, he massaged up and down and all around the clothed mass, astutely observing its owner for his reactions. Not wanting to jump too far too soon, he slid a finger down past the base of the Scrooge’s erection and slipped it into the tight opening there. Coated in their own lubrication, his inner walls immediately constricted around Donald’s finger with such strength he thought he might lose a digit. Scrooge hissed yet still permitted it, even allowing a second and third finger to push their way through. 

“Um, how’s this?”

“It’s, fine,” he answered shakily, clearly struggling to fit Donald’s fingers.

“Okay, I’m gonna start moving, then.”

Scrooge wordlessly spread his legs with a light hump, inadvertently pulling Donald in deeper. The younger drake blinked in surprise, taking it as a sign to proceed without wasting another second. He steadied his free hand on the ground beside them as he concentrated most of his strength to his wrist and knuckles, flicking inward and upward against fleshy walls. Scrooge hardly budged save for a few particularly rough flicks.

“How about now?” Donald implored, pulling out slowly before slamming back in roughly. Scrooge did nothing to hold back a low whine.

“...Keep going.”

Through the watery haze of his lustful eyes he lost track of the feathers by his mouth, no doubt mussed up in his mindless exploration, but he couldn’t help it. Scrooge looked delectable, tasted even more so. But he had to be careful not to get overwhelmed. No matter how enticing it was to relinquish all control, he had to be sure he could multitask, perform all operations at peak performance or else he might never win the night. Making his uncle feel good meant he’d feel good, most likely, but at the end of the night he still needed to secure a favorable position in the old miser’s mind. 

With his figure looming close, and his beak pressed even closer, he continued his approach with a faster pace. The tips of his fingers rubbed up against the underside of textured patches of skin, eliciting strange grunts from his uncle he could only assume meant it was working. He prodded and jostled his uncle’s insides around until his wrist burned and his feathers began to prune.

“Good?”

The old man exhaled and ceased his humping, however faint it was in the first place.

“I lost it.”

“Oh.”

Donald’s chest grew hollow, though he wasn’t sure why. He had run into this situation plenty of times before to quick turnarounds. Although, those moments weren’t exactly with blood relatives, which he suspected might be part of the cause. One step forward, three steps back.

“Do that other thing.”

“Okay.”

Their conversation was terse, not unlike a normal day, but here he found himself doing mental gymnastics just to get by. His sexual partners had always been his closest friends, the kind of found family without blood borders. With them it came simply and naturally, like finding his way back home. It was a stark contrast to the duck in his midst he wasn’t even sure he could call a “partner,” despite his hands tracing every taboo inch of his weathered plumes. If family was uncharted territory, empty maps he never possessed, then Scrooge McDuck was an undying star burning billions of lightyears out of man’s reach. Pursued, yet untouchable. Desired, yet untameable. Only those far gone would be crazy enough to chase.

And so he did.

Keeping to his promise, and above all not wanting to let his uncle down, he pulled out of Scrooge’s wet opening as roughly as he could, making sure to scrape against ribbed surfaces in the process. The old drake keened and quivered as Donald enveloped his needy erection again, his fingers wrapped in a manner that covered it from base to tip. He gave a single airy thrust down, then a firm squeeze up, building a steady motion as fabric bunched and loosened in his grasp. At the onset of their activities he had worried the coat would cause problems, but the opposite quickly proved true. Its smooth fibers felt plush against his sensitive baby feathers, and Scrooge looked the farthest thing from unhappy. In fact, Scrooge looked so submerged in delight that it would be unnerving if not for the tantalizing sounds emitting the man’s beak. 

Donald shifted his legs against the floor, uncomfortable not just for the splinters but for the growing heat hidden beneath his own damp feathers. His uncle was clearly enjoying himself, but he wanted to be certain. He wanted to do more. 

He reflected on his own private time and all the filthy material that had accompanied him in ways he least expected, ways that, despite their clichés, wound him up and knocked him out cold. After swallowing down an unquiet lump in his throat and gathering his thoughts, he mustered up his best impression and never looked back.

“Unca Scrooge,” he started slowly, shifting his tone into something more playful. 

“ _Mh_ , Nephew?” Scrooge replied equally as cautious and coquettish. It sent a shiver to his tailfeathers.

“You worked hard for this.” He cringed at his own cracked voice but it would not deter him. 

“ _Mh-hm_.”

“Isn’t it nice to be taken care of...” He paused as his mind filled with risqué fantasy he never believed he’d indulge in. “...by your nephew?”

Donald felt his heart skip a beat as Scrooge responded in kind, offering a subtle nod as his erection pulsated. 

“S-sure.”

Scrooge seemed just as unsure of it as he was yet showed no signs of opposition.

“To have him touch you like this?” 

No response. His stomach dropped in fleeting anxiety before he reassured himself by soaking in Scrooge’s enraptured visage and searching for the next line in his impromptu script. 

“Don’t you want to, um,—”

“ _Sh_. Noisy.”

Donald pushed deeper, amused more than wounded by his uncle’s pathetic attempt at backtalk. The duck was no doubt affected, with his eyes screwed shut and his tongue lolled out from a keyed up beak, which was nothing to say of the mess down below. Even without the dialogue between them, Donald considered this a small victory and refocused his efforts. He watched the rise and fall of his uncle’s chest intently, absorbing all the ways it shuddered with each flick of his wrist. Still searching for a comfortable tempo, the kind of deliberate rub that never failed him, he alternated his technique in every which way. Angle, speed, pressure, some experimental finger positions he had seen once—he couldn’t tell if they were working. The only certainties were in Scrooge’s body language, the way his precum soaked woven fibers and his moans called for more. But it wasn’t enough to satisfy him.

He was about to switch to his non-dominant hand for a looser rubdown, but Scrooge’s facial muscles twitched, and Donald took it as a sign he had done something right. 

“There,” his uncle said with urgency, and he complied eagerly. He bridged the gap between them until there was nowhere left for his chest to go and fondled through velvet in a new cadence. His eyes hovered by Scrooge’s profile and all the vulgar expressions there, his own head growing hotter and heavier by the second. 

“Like this?” 

Donald altered his rhythm by two aggressive pumps, making sure to grip at the head on his way down. Scrooge flung his hand back, walloping the young drake in the face and halting their progress. Donald’s preoccupied hand nearly choked around his uncle’s girth in flinching agony, but he persisted through the pain. If this all really did turn out to be a sleepwalking dream, an illusion spurred on by heat exhaustion, he might as well have followed through with it. 

“Are you deaf? Keep doing what you were doing before.”

He seized Scrooge’s hand in his own with a tight squeeze, relishing in the strained groan that seeped through his uncle’s throat as he pressed his beak to old feathers and bit hard. 

“Yes, Uncle Scrooge.”

Swept up in the taste and aroma of grizzled down, Donald concentrated everything he had on pushing his uncle past his breaking point. His filled hand pumped of its own accord while his teeth and tongue tended to their own job. He licked and nibbled liberally, spreading across his uncle’s bare feathers, every now and then adding an extra swipe to areas often neglected. When there was too much silence he would fill the air with stolen reactions from unforgiving bites, a form of theft that felt better in that moment than stealing the billionaire’s most prized riches. He was desperate to paw himself, racy thoughts tempting him into schemes on how to get off from rubbing against his uncle’s tail or legs alone. He pressed his lower half flush against the other’s posterior, managing to hump just enough of his shy drakehood against his body to feel pleasure. All he needed was a bit more time to catch up and he’d be coasting in tandem. A win-win, for once in his life.

Without warning Scrooge lifted half his weight onto a bent knee, his muscles noticeably locked up. He knew that reaction. Scrooge wasn’t saying it, but he was close. Donald followed suit at once, raising to kneel against the old drake in support and removing all pressure from his groin. 

Any plans he had for release alongside his uncle were effectively shut down.

Scrooge clutched his other hand tighter, warmer, more needy than Donald had ever been held. He angled his head closer, his heavy eyes targeting the unfamiliar yet intoxicating display of his uncle. A giddy moan slipped through his beak as he huffed in anticipation. This was it.

He brought his voice to a whisper and taunted with his beak nearly touching his uncle’s, “Looks like we’re both degenerates tonight.”

Scrooge raised his hips into Donald’s quickened strokes, tossing his head back with a strangled noise and finally teetering to the point of collapse. Right where he wanted him. 

“Don- _nnh_!” 

The mass in his hand throbbed unrelenting, expanding at the head in erratic spurts beneath his fingertips. Tepid fluid pushed up against the thick fabric of his uncle’s coat as if to demand his attention, its force so strong he could practically hear it. His eyes danced frantically between Scrooge’s face and the fruit of their efforts spilling onto the floor, so much so that he had to keep his mouth on him just to stay grounded. The pounding in his head seemed to match in time with the pulsating length between his palm, wild at first before slowly thrumming to a soft beat as his uncle emptied out. Scrooge’s hips spasmed with each viscous mess that dribbled out of him, the sigh captivating Donald like it was some sort of wicked dance. He aimlessly kneaded until his fingers were chilled by the steadily soaked velvet. Until the fibers of a broken plume in his mouth broke down to nothingness. He casually spit the feather out, keeping a watchful eye on his prize.

Not a word was spoken as time passed long enough for Donald to be reminded of all his room’s unpleasantries. His wrists and knees hurt like hell with the rest of his body finding no solace in the August heat despite air conditioning, and the clock that had woken him up to this tumultuous night was back louder than ever. Hyper-aware of the taut pull at his cheeks, he freed his dry mouth from the base of his uncle’s neck and cleared his throat, hoping his heart wouldn’t come out with the cough. Using the act as a coverup for his awkwardness, he removed his dirtied hand and hovered it out of sight, out of mind. A flash of impulse beckoned him to shove it in his mouth for a taste he would refuse. He bit his tongue in embarrassment and nudged the idea to the side, his inhibitions apparently making a brief and dismaying reappearance as he waited for the night to continue on without his initiation.

Scrooge sighed, the first sign of life in what felt like an eternity. Donald absentmindedly slunk to the floor, completely yielding to the exhaustion of supporting his weight on awkward limbs for the umpteenth minute. He closed his legs around his emerging heat, thankful the thing was still hiding underneath fluffy down, however painful it became to suppress it. His movements eased to a halt as he attempted to calm his breathing, air pushing in and out through his nose in unsteady puffs. Heat filled the room again and he was swimming in it, enveloped by its waves as he hummed against his uncle who seemed to be doing much the same. Distracted by the sounds of their ragged sighing, he lightly rested his head against the comfort of old whiskers and pondered what to do next. Perhaps if whatever cruel universe out there decided to spare him tonight his uncle would return the favor, or maybe they would both go back to his quarters and—

“ _Ugh_ , you made such a mess of my feathers,” Scrooge bemoaned, yanking Donald from his wandering thoughts. “They’re all matted.”

Donald peered down to his hand still on his uncle’s exposed shoulder and all the feathers there. His mindless actions formed a noticeable patch of distressed plumes, each one crooked and coated in saliva. It sent a second wave of warmth to his head that nearly knocked him out. He had no idea he was being that rough.

“Sorry, _heh_ ,” he offered with a noncommittal laugh. “I guess I got distracted. I can still fix it.”

On impulse Donald gathered the clump of feathers together and craned his neck forward until his beak met coarse fibers. He pushed into them gently, meticulously, not thinking anything of rolling his tongue back out for a preening. His free hand latched onto Scrooge’s other shoulder of its own volition, using the old drake as an anchor against rough waters of desire. He wondered what it might be like lost at sea, stranded and wading in an endless abyss of selfish wants. Most of all, he wondered why he hadn’t done this sooner when his uncle tasted better than he had ever imagined. 

He groaned into wetted fluff at the rush of his own introspection.

He had imagined this. He had wanted this. For as long as he first understood what it felt like to have his uncle disappointed in him, and the vexing need for the old man’s approval, he had wanted this. Hungrily, greedily, he had wanted Scrooge all to himself. And then some.

He tightened his hold and opened his mouth for a bigger bite.

“No, that’ll be enough, Nephew.”

A discontented grunt meandered its way to his ears, followed instantly by a backhanded thwack to his beak that forced him off his uncle and made him see stars. The whiplash alone left him speechless.

“And look, look what happened to my beautiful coat!”

Scrooge jerked away and gestured to his sullied coat in pronounced aggravation. Donald massaged the curvature of his bill that would surely bruise in the morning. 

Suddenly he remembered with crystal clarity why he hadn’t done this sooner.

“Well, I—”

“The dry cleaning bill for this is coming straight out of your paycheck,” Scrooge interrupted while shimmying out of loose quilting, the mere sight of which captured Donald in a trance. Naked save for his spats, the old drake held his coat out by his fingertips as if it were diseased, leaving Donald no choice but to take it in his hands.

“Sure, Unk.”

Scrooge began swift ascent, grabbing his cane and Donald’s nightshirt on the way up in one fell swoop. It took Donald’s torso puffing up at the sudden cool air for him to realize what had just happened, and by the time he had gained enough composure to react his uncle was already leaving.

“Now clean this up. I need to go finish my work.”

In the harsh light of the hall an even harsher silhouette gestured with uncaring arms before disappearing behind a closed door.

“...Yes, Uncle Scrooge,” Donald quietly affirmed to the soiled result of his actions on the floor, high and dry and alone in the dark. 

A heavy weight formed in his stomach as everything caught up to him in an ambush of questions: Did his uncle really let him do that? Did that mean it felt good for him, too? Did it really happen at all? And how would any of it explain _why_ Scrooge, for that long? He couldn’t come up with any answers, and he wasn’t sure he ever wanted to. The morning would arrive and he’d find it was all either a dream or a memory, and in both situations he’d still have to confront his feelings. The way he saw it, there was no way out. He couldn’t even pick the lesser of two evils when they were both equally hellish. Such was the luck of Donald Duck.

But that was a concern for tomorrow. He still had a little bit of the night left to himself.

The ache between his legs overpowered the newfound ache in his chest as he sat in heady silence. His hands loosened without intending to, dropping Scrooge’s mussed coat to his most sensitive feathers. He stilled against the wet contact yet did nothing to throw away the reminder of his debauchery, debauchery that only reinforced itself as his hand traveled south with his eyes. His member gradually stood at attention, forming a small mound under the dirtied fabric that he wasted no time to play with. He stroked over the covered tip with a finger, then two, until each digit was lightly coated in mixed fluids. The bump rose more and more as he touched himself, and he knew it was only a matter of seconds before it would become too unbearable to stop. 

Several ideas popped into his head as his hand busied itself, some that were familiar and some that had never been entertained before, but they all enticed him to take his exploration further. He leaned back and spread his legs, sliding an open sleeve over his length with hesitant curiosity. For a moment he paused to consider how this might backfire on him—until the smooth interior rubbed against his now full erection and he gave up worrying entirely. It was new, not at all like his own hand and probably unlike the other holes he wished he could fill, but after tonight’s events the sensation was enough to fling him over the edge.

Abandoning all inhibition he took to his bed and steadied his hips to move at their own gyrating pace. His mind wandered down the hall where he pretended a certain McDuck was doing the same, shutting out all other thoughts and flipping a mental switch to autopilot. Soon he was rocking into cotton sheets and quilted velvet, completely at the mercy of his indulgences whether they felt good or bad. Not a care was spent on the sounds he’d make or the mess he’d take to the dry cleaners. 

It was already coming out of his paycheck, anyway.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> [ OOPS Scrooge is a big ol' asshole and Donald's a fool, who knew???? ]  
> [ Don't worry, in the morning they go about their daily routines and ... do whatever you wanted them to :) ]


End file.
